Invisible Ink
by K. Therese
Summary: Violet Parr is a superhero who outwardly seems very confident. The only thing she can tell the terrible secrets that are eating her alive is her journal. Is the journal enough to help her heal the trauma? Please read the note for the first chapter.
1. Two Different Species of Secret

Sometimes I feel like I'm turning into V.C. Andrews.

Lately, I've noticed a common thread to my fiction—well, two of them. Both feature girls being, to use a euphemism, "ravished." Now, I know that this is probably because I'm still subconsciously working out some of my own personal past traumas, and it's showing up in my writing. I also don't want to be a one-trick pony or anything, so as you read, I would appreciate if you guys and gals leave feedback.

In my fanfic "Coming of Age," the two characters are teenagers. In this one, the characters are a grown man and a little girl. For this reason, I want to warn people before reading this story. I don't want to trigger anyone, as I know what that's like. So, please read this story with caution.

Thank you.

Two Different Species of Secret

For her fourteenth birthday, Violet Parr, aka Invisigirl, bought herself a journal with a royal purple, velvety cover, and a collection of different colored ballpoint pens with her birthday money. Her first entry was written in lavender ink.

_Happy Secrets: _

_I am Invisigirl _

_I save people's lives and they don't even know it's me _

_Everyone in my family has a secret identity_

_I actually kind of like Dash _

_I actually kind of like spending time with my mom, too _

Violet then hid the journal in her bed frame, even though nobody else knew she had bought it.

When she finally couldn't take it anymore, Violet wrote this in the back of her journal, in black ink and tiny, tiny letters:

_My Evil Secrets_

_That I have a secret secret identity, and she's disgusting _

_That I sometimes want to rip my skin off _

_That I hate mirrors _

_That _'s alive inside my head, especially at night_

_Why I hate _

After the word "hate," Violet had written a name. It was written in even tinier handwriting, so tiny the letters blurred together. It wasn't a name; it was effacement.

It was "Mirage."

There were some names Violet couldn't write.

Violet had her hair back now, and she went to the movies and to school games with Tony Rydinger. They would hold hands, and he would kiss her cheek. It turned out he was painfully shy, as well. He confessed this to her as he walked in the park.

"I've always wanted to talk to you," he said. " But I was too nervous."

"How come?" Violet asked.

"Well, because it didn't seem you wanted to talk to anyone. I didn't want to bother you."

"I'm sorry," Violet said. She felt like smacking herself. All that time wasted!

"Plus, you were absent a lot," Tony continued.

"Well, sometimes it _seemed _that way," Violet concurred. She felt a twinge of pride. If only Tony knew she was a superhero! She would never tell him, though. Being a super came with a code of honor that she would never break. Of course, Lucius Best was a super, and he was happily married to Honey, who knew all about his abilities. Maybe someday….

When she was with Tony she could think those things. Any other time, though, she remembered what she was.

"You just were so full of deep thoughts, you know?" Tony said. "I thought you would probably think I was stupid or boring. Am I boring? Because you can tell me, and I know I say stupid crap all the time—"

"Tony, look at me," she put her hand on his shoulder. "You are not stupid or boring. In fact, you are the least stupid and boring person I know."

"Well, you're the smartest and most fun person I know," he leaned in closer to her. "And you have the prettiest hair." His hand was stroking her hair now. He was leaning closer. "And the prettiest eyes." He touched his lips to hers.

Violet wanted to stop him, but didn't want to hurt his feelings. Trying to tell him he couldn't kiss her and why would be like talking to someone who only spoke Ancient Greek. No, it wasn't that he wouldn't understand. It was that she herself would be physically unable to say certain words. Her body would snatch them back inside itself, where they would rot and fester, but everyone else would be safe from their ugliness.

Violet kept her eyes open. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she had to remember that it was Tony who was kissing her. If she closed her eyes, Tony could become…Someone else.

Some names she couldn't even say in her mind.

She couldn't feel Tony's kiss, but it was sweet that he liked kissing her. That made her happy. He was a gentleman, too. He never tried to put his tongue in her mouth, and never kissed her for longer than ten seconds.

Human eyelids looked weird close up.


	2. Three Little Violets

Oh man, I just realized "Invisible Ink" is a really obvious title for a Violet themed fanfic. Do you hear that? It's me smacking my forehead. Also, I do not own _The Incredibles_ or any associated characters.

Three Little Violets

Violet had a love-hate relationship with the nighttime, which was mostly hate.

The nights she could go out with her family to fight crime were sheer heaven. Those nights, she was strong and invulnerable. She had not just one, but two ways to defend herself, but they were not used just for defense. She could knock bad guys over, fling them away from her, and sneak up on them to deliver a surprise kick or punch.

Out doing the superhero thing, she was surrounded by her family, including Lucius, and was helping them. She was useful. She was Invisigirl, and was the polar opposite of the girl she considered her secret-secret identity. That girl was weak and filthy and nasty. The third Violet, the one who wore her hair back, looked people in the eye, and smiled, the one people liked and whom Tony fell in love with, was a fake.

She wanted to be Invisigirl as often as possible. When she was Invisigirl, it was like throwing off a great weight. It was splashing her face with cold water to wash away sweat and grime. As Invisigirl, the mantra she had running sing-song through her head constantly actually seemed true.

_ I helped save the world, and he is dead. I helped save the world, and he is dead. I helped save the world and he is dead. _

Thinking it over and over helped, but not much lately. She needed to see the words, to create them with solid symbols. She wrote them ten times a day, at least, in the journal with the theater curtains cover. Afterwards, she felt like she could breathe a little, like her mind had shut up for a time. But it was like taking cold medicine—the medicine would wear off, and it was misery until she could have another dose.

There was never enough crime to stop. There were too many nights where nothing was happening, when her friends were doing homework, and Tony had practice. She wouldn't have wanted to face them anyway. On nights like that, she went to her room, locked the door, and turned invisible. She wasn't sure if she wanted to die, but she wanted to not exist. She could, at least for a while.

She was lucky that way.

Sometimes on those nights, she would wake up screaming.

Her parents simply thought it was because of the experience at Nomanisan, the sudden induction into superherodom—the plane crash, the men with the guns, having a monster machine's metal claw flying at her, being apart from her parents all those hours in a cave and a jungle, and then in a dingy cell.

"It wasn't that bad," Dash was scowling over sugar-clumped cereal. Violet had woken him. "I don't scream in the middle of the night and wake people up, and then batter my parents with a force field when they try to help me. And I'm younger than she is."

"Don't judge her, Dash," Bob Parr was taking turns between his bacon and his grapefruit. "You used to scream bloody murder over that old-timey cartoon with the dancing skeletons."

"Yeah, but…those are skeletons! These were people! And not even supers! They were just regular."

"Dashiell, we are more regular than not," Helen Parr wiped slimy masticated banana mush from Jack-Jack's chin with the back of a rubber spoon the color of toilet bowl cleaner. "And I won't have you becoming arrogant and lording your abilities, while they are quite wonderful, over other people."

"I'm not arrogant, Mom! I can do things 99.99999999% of people can't do! It's a fact!"

"And I won't have you underestimating danger. Fear is healthy, Dash. It keeps us alive. It's how we evolved. And you should know that people without powers can be very dangerous."

"That's not what I meant. These guys weren't even smart!"

"Be that as it may, I don't blame Violet for still having nightmares."

All of this came to Violet as if she were hearing it with her fingers in her ears. She stared at her breakfast, focusing on her toast, trying to absorb every tiny detail. The brown crust on her toast was filled with little dimples. It was almost reddish, and flecked with tan and black.

She felt bloodless and fading. Last night, she screamed not because she dreamed of fiery shrapnel, but because she felt a weight next to her in bed, heavy, familiar, and reaching.

Something touched her hand. Violet startled and pulled away. She turned to look at her mother examining her with gently probing eyes.

"I'm sorry I woke everybody up," Violet said. She tried to sound sincere and cheerful. She had to play Violet #3, the one everybody liked.

"It's okay, sweetie," Helen reached out to stroke her hair. Violet's palms felt slightly sweaty.

"You know, Vi, maybe you would feel better if you talked about what happened with Syndrome, and the island, and the robot…." Violet's throat locked shut to keep from gagging. Bob continued. "I think maybe we would all feel better. I know I was-"

"No! No Dad. I'm okay. I'll get over it," Violet stood up quickly, taking her half-eaten breakfast to the sink. "Besides, you all already know what happened. I'm just a wimp!" Be cheerful. Be bright. "I just remembered, I left the book for English class out of my room. Can't leave that behind! I'll be right back!"

"She must be really embarrassed about being so affected," she overheard her father say.

She ran to her room and sat down on her bed, turning invisible and putting up a force field. Having to concentrate her mind on the two tasks helped her stop thinking about him. It made her be her favorite self, Violet #1, the superhero, just a little bit. She felt safer inside her bubble. She wrapped her arms around herself, the old comforting gesture. She pulled off her headband and let her hair fall around her face. It seemed silly to do; nobody could see her, and her hair was transparent, so she could still see the outside world. It just felt comforting, like a blanket.

She looked at her headband. It was pink ribbon, and had little fuchsia flowers printed on it. Fake. Pathetic and fake.

Syndrome. The name was snaky, slithering, and nauseating. It made sweat prickle along her rib cage and her stomach wring.

She heard Dash fly down the hallway. She turned off the force field and the invisibility just in time before Dash poked his head in.

"Were you invisible?"

"No. Why would I be?" Violet #3 made her voice sound mildly incredulous and annoyed.

"Did you have a force field up?"

"Yeah, Dash. I had a force field up, for no reason."

Dash shrugged. "Whatever. Mom's ready." He continued flying to his room. "Hurry up!"

Violet stood and put her headband back on. She wasn't careful, and she glimpsed herself in the mirror. She had never liked mirrors, even before she saw her face reflected back to her with HIM over her shoulders. Sometimes, even when she was invisible, she would see him leering with those enormous graying teeth and beady blue eyes at her, in mirrors, in windows at night. That made her freeze in front of the sink or by her bed. It made her heart clench and tremble in her chest. She was certain that phantom face killed her a bit every time it showed up. Perhaps it really was him, come to slowly frighten her into an early grave, his final evil act. Hell had made him even better at slow torture. And yet, the fear from seeing him was a distraction from the despair from seeing just herself.

She had always seen someone gawky and awkward and homely, with frog eyes and a pig nose, when she saw her reflection. Now, her body was a polluted river. She was weak and helpless. If she didn't hide herself from her self, her loathsome body and stupid face, she would spit on herself, or carve herself up with the glass. The thought of doing that was crazy, but it was becoming more and more tempting each time she chanced to look at herself.

Now, when she looked in the mirror, she saw nothing, and it wasn't just because she made sure to turn invisible when she was near anything reflective, if she could. Even when she was visible she still saw nothing. It was what she was worth.


	3. Shattered Savior

I do not own _The Incredibles_. Please refer to the note for the first chapter, because this may be a trigger for some. Reviews mean a lot to me. I read them and take heed! Review, noble readers! Review!

Shattered Savior

Violet suited up and placed her mask over her eyes with reverence. She felt strong, competent, and clean. She was Invisigirl, now. Nothing bad had ever happened to Invisigirl. Nothing ever would.

The police radio had said there was a bank robbery in progress. The whole family hopped into the station wagon, even Jack-Jack, who was placed in his car seat in his little suit. Seeing Jack-Jack in his suit made Violet smile. He was pumping his little fists in the air and going "ba-ba-ba-BA!" He punctuated this by blowing a raspberry. Violet imagined that if Jack-Jack had subtitles, they would read, "Evil-doers beware! I have come to destroy!"

"Jack-Jack can't wait to go, Mom!" She called.

"Well, we can't go until everybody's buckled up!" Helen called cheerfully over her shoulder. "So is everybody buckled up?"

"Yes, Mom," Dash and Violet said in unison.

"Did everyone go to the bathroom?"

"Yes, Mom!"

"Are you sure? Dash, remember what happened…"

"Oh, c'mon, Mom! I was only gone for a minute!"

"You may be fast, Dash, but you pee at the speed of a slug!" Bob Parr chuckled as he backed the station wagon out of the garage.

"Bob!"

"DAD! Do you have to torture me with that for the rest of my life?"

Violet laughed. Dash had disappeared during a fight with a gang of teenage thugs. The family hadn't realized Dash, who was hard, if not impossible, to see during fights anyway, was gone until they noticed the thugs staring at the building behind them. Some of the thugs were cocking their heads like perplexed dogs, and others were giggling. They turned around to see Dash relieving himself on the brick wall of a pharmacy. He was jumping up and down, muttering "come on, come on" to his bladder. When he realized all was silent, he turned over his shoulder, his mouth a tiny little surprised "o." Then he blushed, and gave a sheepish, full-tooth grin. Julius and Bob had lost it right there. They hadn't even tried to hide the fact they were cracking up as they took advantage of the thugs' surprise and amusement to tenderize and freeze some criminal cutlets.

"Not only was it irresponsible, Dash, it was illegal!"

"Mom, it was by a dumpster! It's already dirty."

"I don't care! I've never been so embarrassed."

They hid the station wagon in an alleyway three blocks from the crime scene, and covered it with a tarp they kept in the back. Dash ran ahead to scope out the scene, and then ran back to inform them of what was going down.

"This is going to be _easy_," he said, with a flourish of the wrist. "I checked in with Frozone. He's going to send them on an ice track to your fists, Mr. and Mrs. Incredible. They have guns, so Frozone says be ready with the force field, Invisigirl."

Violet (no, _Invisigirl_) inclined her head. In her mind's eye, she was flinty and steely. Her mouth was in an easy smile of satisfaction and amusement. Bullets were no match for her bubbles.

Dash had been correct. It was an easy bust, but an excellent workout. Jack-Jack actually went out first. He was just learning to walk, and he swayed toward the crooks, finger in his mouth, spit rolling down his lips in a bubbly brook.

"What is this?" A would-be bank robber, a nylon over his face, stepped toward Jack-Jack, who promptly burst into flames.

The five bank robbers stumbled back onto the floor, which Julius had turned into a sheet of ice. They slid down toward the Parrs, guns ablazing, but Invisigirl was prepared.

_This is mine_, she thought, surveying the inside of her shield. It crackled with energy, its power belied by its soft lavender and violet hues.

Two collided with Bob Parr's fist, and went flying back into the vault with so much force they left dents in the metal. Three landed into the slingshot Helen Parr made with her body by stretching herself between the two walls. They went slower and slower, Helen's body stretching into a tiny point, until, with a satisfying sproing, they were flung against the wall of the bank. They stuck there for a full three seconds before sliding down to the floor in three heaps, plaster sticking to their backs. Dash rushed in and had them hog-tied within three seconds. Julius timed it.

They took the back alleys to get back to the station wagon. Invisigirl was feeling the rush. She couldn't stop smiling, and had to keep her feet from skipping. She allowed herself to twirl. The deep navy of the sky, the cool opal of the moon, and the icy stars twirled with her. She lagged behind the others. She wanted to be part of the night some more, in the kindness of the moon and the stars and the darkness. It was so cool and blue-black. It was an antidote to sick, red heat.

Hot red made her want to throw up.

She heard something to her right. There were shadows in the alley. A man and a woman. The man pushed the woman against a chain link fence. Violet (Invisigirl was gone, and so was the kindness of the night) knew it was a man and a woman because the one doing the pushing had big broad shoulders, and a deep voice, and the way his hips moved was horrific and familiar. The woman's legs were bare, spread, exposed, the knees opening and closing in spasms against the man's hips, her feet scratching at the man's calves and at the ground. Her voice was high and breathy, and it begged.

"Please, _please_ don't, _pleeease_." The woman's e's were long and high, the shrill cries of a mouse in a cat's claws, a door being forced open.

A fist yanked back hair. "Shut the fuck up, bitch." The broad body moved faster, harder.

_Spread your fucking legs. _

_ Your voice is making me lose my boner. Shut up or I'll put it in your mouth. You want that? You want it…. _

Searching, searching for a way out, had to get out, had to leave, she…

She saw a board lying on the ground.

She picked it up. She looked at the two on the fence. They were no longer strangers. She was the woman, and the man was HE. She had to shut him up, had to stop him, had to kill him again.

She didn't turn invisible. She ran up, swinging the board at the side of his head. The woman saw her coming. Violet couldn't see many of her features, but a bit of streetlight striped her left cheek. Her left eye was large and liquid, and it widened as it saw Violet coming toward her. She was older than Violet by an unknown amount of years, but she looked at Violet with a naked, childlike helplessness. Violet had seen that look before, on children, the elderly, cops. But then the woman's face shifted, morphed, and became a mirror.

Violet almost smashed the woman's face in, too.

The man must have sensed a change in the air—a drop or rise in temperature, increased barometric pressure—or maybe he felt the woman's posture change, or maybe he saw Violet reflected in the runny surface of his victim's iris. Either way, he turned.

Enormous gray teeth in a heavy jaw, and beady, smirking blue eyes over freckles grinned out at Violet before she hit him in the face with the board.

The man fell to his right knee with an _oof._ Violet fell on him. She saw a streak in her peripheral vision. A part of her that was eerily calm acknowledged it as the woman running away. This part of her watched while she swung the board again at the man's face with so much force she felt a muscle in her shoulder tear.

_Which Violet is this?_ She asked herself as she swung again, and again, grunting with effort. _Because it's not Invisigirl. It's certainly not the Violet everyone sees. It's not the weak one. _

She was glass cracking, splintering—but she wasn't afraid. She heard the man's grunts and curses and cries—she wasn't strong enough to knock him unconscious, and he rose to his feet, reaching for her. She felt the board hit his face with a blunt, wet slap, and he fell again. He was getting back up, but slower this time. Each time he went down, he was slower getting back up. His face grinned, those big, sharp teeth that ground into her face and neck and bit and sucked—

Strong hands wrapped around her shoulders and spun her around. She looked at her father's face. His hands were big and wide, and they were squeezing, pinning her. He had a heavy, square jaw. He had blue eyes, wrapped in a black mask, that were narrowed as he shouted at her. She felt his spittle on her forehead, her chin, on her lips.

The glass shattered.

Violet screamed and kicked and flailed at the man who loved her, who had never hurt her in her life.

"Get away from me! Get away from me! Get away!"

"Honey, honey…"

"No! Let me go!" She was lifted into the air and into her father's chest. She made a force field out of animal instinct, a little one, with no control, no aim, and bounced off her father, falling onto the ground. She curled up, wrapping the force field around herself. She closed her eyes tight.

"Violet, Violet."

The voice was soft and gentle, like a sparrow perched on her finger, or a brush of flower petals.

"It's me. It's mommy. Stop now, Violet."

The voice was quiet, but it was the only thing Violet could hear, and she followed it. As she followed it, she heard other sounds, too—gasping hiccups. Her chest started to hurt, then her shoulder. She felt her body shake. She became aware of the coolness of the air, the darkness outside her eyelids, and griminess that made her sinuses revolt. She swallowed a sneeze, and her diaphragm went _hic hic hic_.

"Shush, shush. Vi. It's okay. Let Mommy in." She was afraid to open her eyes, let alone lower the force field, but the voice was as strong as it was sweet.

"Mo-mom?"

"Yes, baby, I'm here. It's okay."

"Mom, I can't…."

"Yes, you can, honey. Your father and I are here. We aren't going to let anything happen."

_Too late. _

The thought brought her back to the present. She wasn't at Nomanisan. She was in an alley. She wasn't flat in the big room. She was sitting on her butt on cold, dirty, oily concrete. The thought filled her with sadness and a perverse sense of relief.

Violet opened her eyes. Through the shimmery purple interior of her force field, she saw her mother. Her mother was reaching for her with both of her eyes and one tentative hand. The eyes were velvety brown, a safe color.

Violet scrubbed her eyeballs with her knuckles. The force field pulsed. Its surface was a pool of dancing shadows. She felt very tired. She let it fall.

Immediately Helen wrapped her arms around her shoulders, as if the force field, in dropping away, settled them there. "Come on now. Come on. It's okay. Let's go home." She lifted the shaky Violet to her feet, and then led her to take one step, and then another. Violet turned invisible, and peeked over her fists. Dash stood next to him, holding Jack-Jack. Jack-Jack was solemn. Dash's mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide and darting. Frozone's back was to her as he stood in the mouth of the alley. His back was tense as red and blue lights twirled and leapt to tint the turquoise of his suit and tossed color onto his white helmet. She heard the sirens.

Her father was staring at where she would be, chewing on his lip. Looking at him, she wanted to apologize, beg for forgiveness, and then run away, far away. She had to fight the urge.

_Am I in trouble? _

"No, honey, you're not in trouble, but we have to go home, okay?"

_Did I say that out loud? _

"Yes, Vi, you did." Her mother sounded strange now. Her voice was kind of choked. She pressed Violet's cheek to her shoulder. "You're just really upset, baby. We're going to get you home."

_There's something wrong with me. _

There was no response. She must not have said it out loud.


	4. Warped and Buckled

I do not own _The Incredibles_.

Please read the note on for the first chapter, and read with your own self-care in mind.

Warped and Buckled

The drive home after Violet beat up the guy in the alley was silent. Even Jack-Jack was quiet. Violet had leapt into the very back of the van and curled up into herself. The consequences for what she had done were coming to her, and she shook in her own arms. Would she go to superhero jail? Was there such a thing? Would her family have to go to court? Was the guy dead?

_They can do whatever they want to me. It can't get any worse. _

She wasn't sure which Violet thought that.

Silent car rides seem to last forever. After what felt like hours, Violet heard doors open and close. Careful hands touched her shoulders.

"Come on, sweetie. Let's get you into bed."

Violet, still curled into herself as much as she could, let her mother gently ease her out of the van and onto her feet. Her hair was out of its headband, and it felt cozy over her face. Her mother's arm around her should have made her feel safe, but somehow it didn't feel like enough.

Her father's face was empty as they walked past him in the entry hallway.

_Your daddy never tells you you're pretty, does he? _

_ Where's your daddy, little girl? Where's the great daddy Incredible now? _

For a second, Violet was overwhelmed with the terrible certainty of puking. She clutched at the wall with sweaty hands, gasping and swallowing.

"Woah, woah, it's okay." Her mother groped until she found Violet's hair and pulled it away from her face. She put her arms around Violet's middle, helping her stand.

The nausea that had slammed into Violet with battering-ram force slowly ebbed away, leaving her feeling wrung and wilted. She leaned her forehead into the wall. "Mom," she whispered.

"You okay now? Ready to walk?" She led Violet down the hall. "Do you want to take a shower, or a bath—"

She smelled bitter gin and sour orange, sickly sweet lemon, and those pink hands, and the downy slabs of the thighs—"I just want to take a shower."

"Okay." Her mother's voice had the tone of someone trying to calm a skittish pony. "Let's get your jammies and then you can take a shower. Do you want some tea?"

"Sure." Violet couldn't remember what she had just approved.

Her mother started the shower as Violet stared at the towels on the rack. "Sweetie, I'm going to stay really close, so if you need anything, let me know, please?"

For a while Violet stood invisible in the shower, letting the water silhouette her body. She listened to the water roaring. She heard Dash outside. He was trying to whisper, but not quite succeeding. She could just make out what he said.

"Mom, is Violet in trouble?" He sounded scared. "Are we going to have to move again? Is she going to be put in a special jail, or something?"

"No, no, no." There was a knock on the door. "The tea is done, honey," she called. "Do you want me to put it on the counter in there, or by your bed?"

Violet tried to wrap her brain around the question. It seemed like there was one right answer. Then she forgot the question.

"Violet?"

"What, Mom?"

"Where do you want your tea, honey?"

"Just…wherever."

" I'll just put it by your bed."

Water sloughed off her form. The surface of her skin felt cleaner, but it wouldn't last. The greasy, slimy feeling was inside her heart, and inside her guts, and it always, eventually, seeped out through her pores.

Writing helped her mind—_I helped save the world, and he is dead. _Writing those words down made them seem truer. It made whatever else happened less important. But then the slimy feeling slithered up from her heart into her brain.

She had to write now.

She turned off the shower, wrung out her hair, and dried herself off. She put on her pajamas and ran to her room. The tea was sitting on her bed stand, sweet with honey and chamomile. She locked the door behind her and pulled her drapes shut. She pulled the journal out from under her mattress. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she began to write.

Dash was showering now. He was whistling a song he was making up as he went along.

She wrote, _I helped save the world, and he is dead_, ten times in a row.

Then, flowing right out of the pen,_ If he wasn't dead, I would kill him. _

Violet looked at those eight words. They stayed put. She realized she would, indeed, kill him, if only she could. And she realized that it would not be a quick death.

She put her head down on her arms and dreamed. She dreamed that she wasn't the one screaming. She wasn't the one crying. She wasn't scared. She was powerful and shaking with exhilaration.

She rolled onto her right side, back pressed firmly against the wall. She had moved the bed against the wall a few weeks ago, when the sensation of nothing against her back made her think of someone sneaking up behind her. She dozed on and off without knowing it, sipping luke-warm tea whenever she thought of it, head pillowed on her arms, her cheek pressed into her journal. The smooth page felt as soothing as a mother's breast. When she was awake, she dreamed of what would have happened if the man whose memory consumed her hadn't died.

She saw herself doing terrible things.

Towards morning, she sat bolt upright. The only company she had was her lamp, which glared at the shadows in the corners of the room.

She wished her family had a pet—a cat or a little dog to cuddle with and breathe next to her, or a big dog to wrap herself around and feel safe. Even a rabbit wouldn't be bad. Being the only one awake made her feel like the last person on earth.

Since she had no dog, she made do with her own skinny legs. She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest, rocking back and forth. She imagined her mother doing this. Her knees compressed her chest, and the tears began to flow.

She thought about the fantasies she had just had. The anger was hot and thick in her chest and made her heart beat faster. It had been so satisfying. At the same time, it had _hurt_, and the hurt was her punishment for being vengeful, for wanting to be a monster.

Violet knew she shouldn't be thinking the things she was thinking, or feeling what she was feeling. Good people didn't think those things, or feel those feelings, let alone superheroes. The tenuous structure of her false selves, and the barrier she had put up between her self in the present and her memory of the room in Nomanisan Island, which sometimes seemed more vivid than anything around her, were beginning to buckle and warp. They had never been very strong to begin with.


	5. Diagnosis

The Incredibles are owned by Pixar. Please read my note for the first chapter, and read with your own self-care in mind.

Diagnosis

The next morning, Violet woke up on the carpet, her mother stroking her hair. She knelt beside Violet, backlit by warm, soft, pale morning light.

"Do you want to talk, honey?" Her mother said, softly.

Violet shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

Violet nodded.

Her mother looked into eyes. "All right," she sighed.

Violet closed her eyes again. She pressed her cheek into the carpet, while her mother's hand gently pressed her temple.

"Why don't you stay home today, Sweetie, and rest? I don't think you slept at all last night."

"Okay, Mom," Violet's tongue felt thick and coated with a skin of honey and the tang of chamomile. She would need to brush her teeth soon, but not right now. Her muscles, she realized, were no longer clinging to her bones in a death grip. She hadn't realized how tense she had been.

Her mother was still kneeling next to her. She put her hand between Violet's shoulder blades and rubbed her back, up and down, up and down. Her fingers probed underneath Violet's scapulas and over and between her vertebrae. Violet let herself melt, just a little.

"Vi, if you could eat anything in the world, what would it be?"

Why was her mother asking her that? Violet hadn't thought much about food since Nomanisan. Food was much too complicated right now. "I don't know."

"How about a milkshake? Made with chocolate ice cream?"

The doorbell rang, and Helen jerked her head around in the direction of the front door. Violet caught the look on her face—the widening of the eyes, the biting of the lip. Violet heard the door open, and the low rumble of her father (her father? What was he doing home?) saying something to the person at the door. The person returned with his own hard-edged boom.

It was Rick Dicker.

Violet was going to jail.

"Honey, it's okay," Helen stroked Violet's hair back from her forehead. "Nothing is going to happen. I promise."

"Then why is he here?"

"Just to talk, that's all. Just to talk." Helen glanced back over her shoulder. "Now you just relax. I'll be right back with that shake for you." She stood up to leave, closing the door behind her. A second later it opened again.

"There's nothing to worry about, Sweetie," Helen said, her face stretched into a wide-eyed smile. The door closed again.

Violet waited in her room until her mother's footsteps faded down the hallway. She searched for her super suit, but it was nowhere to be found. She considered disrobing, but the feeling of being naked was nearly unbearable. She vacillated. Her parents and Dicker talked in the kitchen. She had to be prepared. She had to be ready to flee out the window, if it came to that.

She stripped, wincing. Her panties were white, with a little pink ribbon. Nothing too auspicious for the shadows of the hallway. She would just poke her head around the corner into the kitchen, her lower half obscured. It would be okay.

She turned invisible and tiptoed down the hallway.

She heard Dicker long before she reached the kitchen.

"So your daughter got a bit rough," he slurped loudly on his coffee. "It's happened before. Besides, the guy was a monster. You know how many assaults they've finally linked this guy to? Ten. That girl would have been much worse off if your daughter hadn't seen what was going on. "

"Well, that's just great, Rick. I'm happy you can see the silver lining, but don't you think that seeing an assault would be a bit traumatic for a young girl?" Helen's spoon tinged and scraped against the side of her mug.

"Well, no disrespect, Helen, but it doesn't have to be a trauma for her unless she's told it has to be a trauma. It could lift her spirits, help her see how important she is as a super hero. A good dose of confidence could help her be less afraid at night. It could be a source of pride—"

"I kind of agree with Rick, Helen. This could be a source of pride for her. She saved that girl's life." Bob was smiling now, his voice gaining momentum. "Maybe we should bring her out here, tell her how she put a major criminal behind bars, congratulate her—" He pushed his chair back. Violet flinched.

"Bob, leave her be! She wasn't acting proud about it, Rick. She was physically sick last night; she was devastated. You know that, Bob! And she's already acting so…_strange_. Ever since Nomanisan, she hasn't been herself!" She put her spoon down in her saucer and flicked her hands at her husband. "She screams in the night, Bob! I can't believe you don't see it! I can't believe you don't think our little girl beating the ever loving—crap—out of a guy is out of the ordinary!" She flung her napkin down on the table. "Besides, if lack of self-confidence was giving her night terrors, don't you think that knowing she's taken out a couple of criminal masterminds would have solved that problem?"

"Helen, of course it's strange! I'm not totally oblivious. She's a tender- hearted girl, and she's been through Nomanisan, and then the whole thing with the guy last night…You know, she's probably feeling guilty. She feels bad that she hurt the guy, even though she has no reason to. She's just a gentle little girl, who's had to use force on someone for the first time. I mean, no wonder she's a little upset."

Helen folded her hands under her chin. "We've never really talked about what happened on Nomanisan Island. What happened to each one of us, when we were by ourselves…we've never really talked about it. "

"Helen, why should we?" Bob rolled his shoulders back in exasperation. "We're here! We're okay! We won!"

"Violet's not okay, Bob," Helen hissed. "She's in pain. You can't deny it. We can't deny it."

"If I may," Dicker said. "Violet's symptoms—the night terrors, not eating, the jumpiness, the spaciness—this cluster of symptoms sound like Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome—"

_Syndrome_.

"Excuse me, Disorder. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I'm used to calling it Shell Shock. Now, what happened on Nomanisan Island would traumatize anyone. You've both told me you've had your share of nightmares. But Violet is young, and she's new to the whole superhero scene. Maybe it would behoove her to go see someone, someone she could talk to."

"A therapist?" Helen prompted.

"Well, yes, but she won't be the only superhero who's gone to see someone. You'd be surprised at how many superheroes have taken advantage of our program. In this business, I'm surprised there aren't more."

Violet saw herself trapped on a couch, with a faceless, droning stranger encouraging her to talk about her feelings.

"If she needs a therapist, we'll get her one," Helen flattened her palms over her eyes and rubbed her face. "It just kind of hurts that she won't talk to me, you know?" She pulled her hands from her face and gazed imploringly at Bob and Rick. "I mean, I haven't done anything to make her not trust me, have I?

"Of COURSE not," said Rick, his gravelly voice soothing. He patted Helen's hand. "This could also just be teenage issues, too. God knows I went through it with my kids. It's all the damn hormones, you know what I'm saying?"

"I shudder to think what Dash is going to be like," Bob said, nudging Rick. "Can you imagine that kid? He's already talking about girls liking him at school."

"Oh, Bob! Don't you think I'm keyed up enough as it is?" Helen stood up so fast her chair legs creaked. "Oh no! I almost forgot Violet's shake!"

Violet rushed back to her room. She changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and ran a brush through her hair as her bedroom door softened the blender's whirr into a purr. Jumpiness? Spaciness? Not eating? When did her parents notice those things? More importantly, how? She had been trying so hard to hide it. What was wrong with her? If she was this bad at keeping secrets, it was a wonder nobody knew her secret identity.

She would have to try harder if they were going to take her to a therapist. She couldn't go to a therapist. Therapists would know how to make her talk, and, when did make her spill her guts, they would tell her parents.

Nobody could know what happened. If people found out, that would be all they could see whenever they looked at her. She would be tattooed, marked, branded. She would see it reflected in their eyes. It was bad enough that she had to avoid mirrors to keep from seeing her body, those marks that had faded away but that she could somehow still feel, and from seeing that yellow and red leer. Nobody, least of all her parents, could be allowed to imagine what happened, what was said and what was done. She would rather die.

In fact, if it came to that, if she was stripped naked in her parents' minds, if they were given the opportunity to map the location of the hands, the mouth, the—

She would die.

The door was flung open. Her mother came in, her eyes wide and scanning the room, and mouth tight. She shoulders loosened when she saw Violet.

"Violet, why didn't you answer? I knocked, and then I called your name."

"I'm sorry, Mom." This was a bad start to her new program of upping her secrecy. "I had my headphones on."

"Oh," Helen probed her daughter's face. "What were you listening to?"

Damn. "Um…Heart."

Helen tilted her head to the side and slowly nodded, as if she was wrapping her brain around what Violet said. "Well, Heart is very cool," she said. "I guess that now that your old mom said that, you can't listen to them anymore, right?"

"Don't be silly," Violet went through the motion of laughing. This seemed to make her mother happy. Helen set the milkshake on the nightstand and hugged Violet.

Hugs had been so strange. They made her emotions jolt and shatter inside her into a very complicated jigsaw puzzle. There was a piece labeled "disgust," another "longing," another "sadness," and a little one labeled "comfort." She didn't know which emotion was the strongest at any given hug; it was like being in a crowded room full of jostling people. She returned the hug, however, because that was what healthy people did.

Helen let go and held Violet by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. Violet couldn't hold her eyeballs still. They flicked away from her mother's gaze. She knew her mother noticed.

"What did Mr. Dicker want?" Violet asked.

"Oh, it was just a bunch of bureaucracy, honey. You know how it is now. All the paperwork involved." She paused. "Violet, he's going to want to talk to you about last night."

Violet had to think. She would be a sitting duck if she talked to Dicker right now. She had to prepare; she had to rehearse. "I'd rather do it later."

"Okay. I'll go tell him that."

This surprised Violet. She picked up the shake and took a sip of the silky foam, not because she wanted to eat, but because it would make people suspicious if she didn't.

"Thank you, Mom."

"No problem, Sweetie. "

After her mother left, Violet stared into space, the glass sweating cold in her hand. Her mother was so sweet, so innocent. It was an odd thing to think about one's mother, but it was true. She would have to step up her game. It was going to be difficult, but if she just kept telling herself that he was dead, and she helped save the world, it would be okay.

The cold from the shake was starting to sting, so she put the cup down. Without knowing why, she glanced at her mirror. Because the sun reflected brightly off the glass, she couldn't see herself, or him.

_She was in front of the giant mirror, the one that stretched over the white and lime green counter, the golden faucets. Her super suit was open at the neck, and those thick fingers, gloveless, nude, were pulling through her hair, straightening it out. They were going to be put in the control room soon. He had told her. They would be restrained with those electrical orbs, but they wouldn't hurt, he said, if she was good. His teeth were huge over her head. He removed his fingers from her hair to pull down the collar of her suit farther, revealing a purple blotch of burst blood vessels that began where her neck met her shoulder and went down to her collarbone. He brushed them with his fingertips. _

_ "See?" He giggled. "I gave you a necklace of violets." _

Violet gasped and choked at the feeling of that phantom breath, those phantom fingertips. Gagging, she grabbed the side of her bed and doubled over it. They had been on her just then, that breath, those fingers. They had been in her hair like giant spiders. She had FELT them.

He really was haunting her. She needed an exorcist, or a witch doctor, not a therapist.

_I'm sick_, she thought. _I'm sick with a Syndrome_.


	6. Ragdoll

_The Incredibles_ are owned by Pixar. This story may have triggers for survivors, please take care of yourselves. Also, there is an offensive word in Lucius' story (he is quoting a villain; these are not his words).

Edit: I was calling Lucius Julius, and I fixed that. I associate Lucius so strongly with Lucius Malfoy I can't imagine anyone else being called that. Plus Samuel L. Jackson's character's name in _Pulp Fiction_ was Julius, and guess who played Frozone!

Ragdoll

The next day was Saturday. While Violet was brushing her teeth, Dash popped in to say hi.

"Do you have any idea where Mom and Dad are going?" He asked her.

"No. Shopping, maybe?"

"Mom's been fussing over her outfit for, like, an hour. She tries on an outfit and says it's too dressy. She tries on another and says it's too casual. She's driving Dad insane."

"Maybe they're going out to brunch with friends."

Dash put a finger to his lips and cocked his head to the side, squinting one eye in that thinking way he had that Violet thought was actually kind of darling. "That would make more sense," he said. "I wonder where they're going. Oh! I gotta ask them to bring me back waffles!"

With a zipping sound he was gone. In a minute he was back.

"They're not going to brunch, so, no waffles for me," he sighed and let his shoulders rise and fall dramatically. "I wonder if they'll let me make some?"

"Not a chance," replied Violet.

She went back to her room to find her mother laying outfits on her bed. It looked like she had ransacked Violet's closet. She lifted a hanger with a white blouse and overlaid it over a black wool skirt, and then over a red skirt. She did the same thing with a pink blouse.

"What's going on?"

"Oh, Honey! You and your dad and I are going to take a little outing! We'll go to your favorite coffee cake place, how about that?"

"Where else are we going?"

"Oh, we're going to meet somebody—just for an hour. That's all."

A sick heaviness settled over Violet.

"Do I have to come? I mean, if it's you and Dad meeting someone—"

"Well, it's your meeting, too, honey. Mr. Dicker's going to be there, and he's going to introduce us to a nice lady named Margaret. I think you'll really like her. You'll have a little tea with her and—"

"I don't want to go. And I'm not going."

"Violet, honey, please. We'll go to your favorite coffee cake place, and the bookstore, okay? How about that?"

"You can't bribe me like that, Mom."

"Well, sure I can! It's just for an hour, Sweetie, I promise, and then we'll go wherever you'd like."

"I'm NOT going!"

"Violet, please, this is to help you!"

"I don't need help!"

Violet fled, turning invisible, shedding her pajamas as she ran, barely slowing down to take off her pants. She hopped on one foot, wrestling with her clothes, sobbing with frustration, as she serpentined through the living room, leaving the pajama bottoms in a puddle on the floor. She ran toward the couch. She would ditch her underpants there, and then, when her parents passed, she would sneak down to the basement. Mom kept the winter clothes down there, and the basement was cold anyway.

She dove for the couch, and into her father's arms.

For the briefest of seconds, her father's fingers grazed the sides of her breasts.

She lay there, stunned, her father's palms under her armpits. Her father's face was beet red.

"Violet, I am so sorry: I did NOT mean to; I couldn't see you—"

The sensation of big hands flat on her bare skin made Violet twist, and writhe, and claw, and scream, and scream, and scream. Her flailing feet knocked over a round side table as she kicked out blindly.

Her father's embarrassment turned to fear. "Helen! She'll hurt herself! Do something!"

Her mother was there before her father even finished his sentence, stroking, soothing. They tried to wrap their arms around her. The lightness of fingertips felt like fire ants, and any more pressure seemed to squish her flesh to pulp. Violet couldn't hear them, or see them. She felt her feet connect with her father's flesh, and her nails break his skin, but it wasn't her father she was seeing.

He was back. He was there. He had gotten her.

She put up a force field. There were thuds and crashes. She couldn't see. The force field imploded and exploded around her.

"Mommy! Daddy!"

"Honey, we're right here! Daddy's got you!"

"No! No!"

The force field spurted and fizzed and then she was squished, bodies pressing in to her back and belly, until she was pinned, an insect who could only wiggle its limbs.

There was no use in fighting anymore. She went limp. She sobbed and hiccupped, hyperventilating. She felt her chest and back heaving against the two bodies pressing her in on both sides.

"Violet, Violet, can you hear me? It's mommy, Violet. "

"Mommy—" Violet moaned. Mommy was there?

Yes. Daddy too. They smelled like piney deodorant, baby powder, and sweet pea. There was Daddy, pulling a blanket down from the couch, placing it flat on the floor. There was Mommy, laying Violet on the blanket, wrapping her up in it like a baby. There was the low, white ceiling, the light bulbs opaque and asleep in their sconces. There was the pumpkin-y couch, which had traveled with them from house to house. There were the photographs on the wall, some now hanging askew, and others fallen off the wall completely. There was the poor furniture she had knocked over: the comfy yellow easy chairs, the little round side table— the one that she had placed countless drinks on over the years. Through her tears, its upturned legs seemed to wiggle helplessly.

"I'm sorry," she said to the poor little side table.

"Don't be," her mother crooned. Good, her mother wasn't crying.

"The table's okay? Daddy? Are you okay?"

"Yeah sweetie, we're all okay," Daddy's voice was choked, and she heard her mother sniffing behind her, now. She had made them both cry.

"Please don't cry. I'm fine, really."

Her father stood up, cradling her in his arms. She couldn't move inside her wrappings. He carried her back to her room. Her mother cleared the bed. There was a shared glance between the parents, and then her father left. Mom had gathered Violet's pajamas. She unwrapped Violet, and Violet redressed, not sure how much she was actually dressing herself, and how much her mother was doing. Her mother rewrapped her.

Violet curled up in the little cocoon, feeling numb and exhausted. She would give herself a light sleep. That was all she needed, a little sleep, and then she had to be on the alert. Her parents could only do so much.

She woke up to a gentle touch on her shoulder.

_I slept too long. _

She gasped, pushing herself to her knees and forearms. She was ready to leap off the bed and run from the room.

It was her mother. Her mother saw her tenseness, heard her ragged breath, and knew too much.

"Sweetheart," she said, her eyes too shiny, "Mr. Dicker's in the kitchen, and Lucius, too. He brought you a little something. We're all going to eat lunch together."

"That's all who's here?" Violet whispered.

"That's all," her mother promised.

Smells from the kitchen wafted into the room. The fragrance of cinnamon, butter, and hot chocolate made Violet's stomach growl. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten.

_I'll just eat_, she thought. _I won't talk_.

Helen respectfully turned her back and put away the clothes on the floor while Violet changed into jeans and a t-shirt and brushed her hair. She followed her mother to the kitchen.

Jack-Jack was in his high chair, gnawing on a ladyfinger cookie, and Dash was sitting in his chair, drumming an impatient tattoo with his fork. Mr. Dicker looked barely any more patient than Dash; he rapped his fingers on the table and stared at Lucius' back. On the table was an opened box from Potter's Bakery, who made the best butter streusel coffee cake in the universe. Lucius was wearing an apron and rapidly stirring a mixture on the stovetop with a whisk. He turned around and his face bloomed into his trademark grin. Violet, unable to help herself, smiled weakly back.

"Hey hey, Princess! Just in time! I'm making my fabulous homemade coffee cake and hot chocolate!"

Dash rolled his eyes. "Lucius, the box is right there."

"Of course it is, Dash! I gotta make another and deliver it to store! I'm the one who makes all their cakes, didn't you know that? I'm glad I already have a secret identity, because this secret would drive the whole city crazy. I'll never have a moment's peace, with all those people banging on my door for cake. I let the bakery take the credit."

With that, Lucius lifted the saucepan off the burner, went to the table, and pulled out Violet's chair. "Won't you relax, my lovely?" he winked, pouring some of the saucepan's contents into the mug. Violet sat down and Lucius pushed her in.

For some reason, Lucius' presence relaxed her. It made her safer, seeing him smile and laugh.

"Ouch! My tongue is melting!"

"Dash! You don't gulp hot chocolate of that caliber. You sip it. Here, let me cool it off for you. " With a wave of his hand, the steam from Dash's mug wafted away. "There. Should be just right. Let me get that for you, Princess." He waved his hand over Violet's mug. When she picked it up, it was still toasty, but not painful. Lucius had practiced this.

She sipped her hot chocolate and took little bites of the warm coffeecake, too exhausted to do anything more than that besides follow Lucius' smile with her eyes. He hadn't been on Nomanisan Island. He had no memories of that place clinging to him. He was there for the best part—the part where they took HIM down. The hot chocolate he made was creamy and foamy, and the coffeecake was gooey. It steadied her. She pretended it was just her and Lucius, in a nice, safe little bubble.

After everyone had finished (Dash had thirds), Helen began to clear the table. "Dash," she said, "while Lucius has a cup of coffee, why don't you put Jack-Jack in his bouncer and let him watch you play a video game? He can watch you play that one you're working on. It's not violent—"

Dash and Jack-Jack were already gone. "Come down when you're done, Lucius!" Dash called up the stairs to the basement.

Violet stared down at the crumbs on her saucer, the smears of cinnamon and butter striping the rose on the plate. She registered that she was gripping her fork in her fist. The silence was terrible. Inside its bubble she was shrinking, and her parents and Lucius were getting bigger and closer…

"Violet," Lucius began. "May I tell you a story?"

Violet shrugged one shoulder. The chair next to her squeaked slightly as Lucius pulled it out to sit in it.

"This is a story I only tell my best friends, like your folks, and Mr. Dicker here. People I trust with my life. It's about something I used to be ashamed about. "

Violet lifted her eyes from her plate.

"Once, Violet, I had this villain break into my house. His name was Ragdoll. Ragdoll was a sociopath. Do you know what that means?"

Violet nodded.

"Ragdoll wasn't just evil, he was smart, too. And I had just thrown him in jail, but he managed to escape, and find my home." Lucius' voice went deep and rough. "We heard a noise downstairs, Honey and I. We heard this noise, and we went to investigate. We thought maybe it was a raccoon in the chimney, or something." He sipped his coffee and stared straight ahead. "When we got downstairs, it was quiet, but then I heard it again, and I went toward where it was coming from. It was this knocking, scraping sound. When I walked toward it, it got louder and louder. But when I got there, the noise would stop. It would be so quiet for a bit, and then it would start again, over in some other part of the wall, this loud knocking and scraping in the wall."

Lucius swallowed and took another sip of his coffee. Violet noticed some of the hairs in his beard were gray. His eyes looked hollow.

"I don't know how long this lasted. I thought I was going crazy. Then, I heard the knocking, right next to the fireplace, and the next thing I hear is my wife gasping." He looked Violet in the eyes, then. "Have you ever seen a machete, Violet?"

Violet nodded again.

"At first, all I could see was that machete. It took up my whole eyes. It blinded me. " Lucius' voice became softer, deeper. "And Honey was at one end, and Ragdoll was on the other."

Bob put his hand on Lucius' shoulder.

"The Ragdoll wore this mask, you see. It was made out of all these different rags, sewn together. I thought it was stupid looking before. It made me think of a turnip, you know, how turnips look like packages, if you look at them, little lumpy bags. It was tied on top of his head with barbed wire, and it was stained with God knows what, but his eyes were just burning at me. "

Lucius inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. Dicker wordlessly refilled his coffee.

"He had this blade up against Honey's neck, and as I watched, I saw blood, her blood, running down the edge. My wife's blood." Lucius' hands tightened around his mug. "And he said to me, "No fudgsicle nigger is going to put me away.'" But it was like he was whispering, because I barely heard him. Honey's breathing was just so loud in my ears. She was breathing so shallow, it was like she wasn't breathing at all, but I could hear it. She was scared. And then, I saw him slit my wife's throat." He paused, gazing into his coffee cup as if he were watching it all happen again. "I saw blood everywhere, just pouring out of her. I saw my Honey's eyes go blank, and she went slack. Then I heard this roaring, a roaring that was like a scream. I thought I went deaf."

Lucius paused. He stared down at his plate. Nobody moved.

"When the roaring stopped, there was blood, and something was squeezing me around my knees. It was Honey, squeezing me, and the blood was from the Ragdoll. The plant next to him had just been watered, and we figured out later that's where I got the water to freeze. "

He ran a hand over his face.

"I had pinned him to the wall with icicles. Two of them went right through his eyes, through the back of his skull." Lucius smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Rick came in to save the day, of course. He was already doing clean up on my own saving of the day, making sure nobody knew a super was using his powers. Then I have to go and have a dead body in my house."

He held his mug to his lips, then lowered it.

"Anyway, Honey got through it okay. She was more worried that Ragdoll had let it slip I was a super. Turned out he didn't, but she only lost a couple nights' sleep. As for me, I spent nights just staring at Honey, watching her sleep. And I would see her throat slit, or with my icicles piercing her, and I would cry. She would always wake up, too, and comfort me. Comfort me! I wasn't the one who had a machete at my throat, or icicles flung at my face. Yet I was the one who couldn't let it go. I was a weak man. Weak and irresponsible. If I had been off the mark on those icicles, and I don't know how I wasn't, they would have pierced her. That played in my mind, over and over. It was a movie I couldn't turn off."

He placed his hand on Violet's.

"I didn't tell your parents for a while. I was afraid they would hate me."

"And when he did, he couldn't tell us everything," Helen said.

"Why?" Violet's voice was a croak.

"Because I had put Honey in danger, and because I was haunted by what I saw, and what I did. That's not a superhero."

"But you are," Violet whispered. "You are a superhero."

"That's what your mom and dad and Rick and Honey told me, but I wouldn't listen to them. So, one day, Rick calls me in, and he introduces me to a lady named Margaret. And right when I was shaking Margaret's hand, I felt better. She's that kind of person. She's warm and bright, like standing next to a heater on a cold day. Next thing I know, 45 minutes have gone by, and I don't see Rick anywhere. He left about five minutes after I walked in."

"It was the only way I could get him to talk to someone," Rick said.

"I couldn't stay mad at him for hoodwinking me into seeing a shrink, though. I can't imagine my life now, with that guilt, the shame, and that fear…." Lucius shuddered.

"I don't need to hoodwink you, kid," Rick said to Violet, pointing at Lucius and smiling slyly. "You're smarter than this guy, here. You know there's no shame in talking things out. "

"And you wouldn't have to see her forever," Bob said, quickly. "Just meet her, and then see how you feel."

"Vi, after what you saw, and what Syndrome did"—Violet stifled a gag as Lucius said the name— "anybody would be feeling frightened and angry. Hell, we're not supposed to compare, but I would wager you have as much, if not more, reason to feel as frightened as I did. And you have no reason to feel any shame or guilt, either. You'll be fine. Just give talking it out a try, Violet, just once."

Violet looked around at the adults around her, staring at her with pleading eyes.

"Fine," she said slowly. "I'll meet her. I might not see her regularly, though."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the adults. Violet watched their shoulders drop.

"Okay, then!" Helen stood up and began picking up the dishes, stopping to kiss Violet on the forehead. "Lucius, I believe you're wanted downstairs. Rick, would you like another cup? Bob, could you hand me that plate?"

Violet stood and walked to her room, phasing herself invisible as she crossed her mirror. She picked up her journal and started writing.

_I helped save the world, and he is dead, _ten times in a row.

Five lines down, the words changed.

_I won't talk. I won't talk. I won't talk. _


	7. Margaret

Margaret

Three things stuck out to Violet about Margaret's office. One, it had a fireplace. Two, it had an all white statue of an Asian lady, whose eyes were softly closed, and who had a sweet smile, even though she was standing on a dragon. Third, there was a tank of fish. Violet was in a quandary of what to look at first, the statue, or the fish, but then one particular fish caught Violet's eye. It was as long as an eel, and about an inch thick. It twisted and looped through the water, like the ribbon on the end of a wand. When it noticed Violet with its beady eyes, it ducked under a tunnel in a rock, its long body undulating endlessly until it finally disappeared.

"Wait a moment," a gentle alto voice said behind Violet.

Violet turned and found herself looking at someone's chest. She looked up into bright eyes. "It'll peek out in a little bit." She held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Margaret."

Margaret did not look like Violet expected. Women named Margaret were supposed to be regal, or look like Emily Dickinson. This Margaret was at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders. Her hand was large and knobby. A feeling of confusion mixed with embarrassment flushed through Violet, followed by shame.

"I'm Violet," she whispered. "It's nice to meet you."

"Violet. That's a lovely name. Ah! There he is!" Margaret pointed at the aquarium. The eely fish peeped out from the tunnel of rock.

"That's a sand Goby," said Margaret. "He's about 18 inches long."

"Does he have a name?" Violet asked.

"No, I haven't given him one. Do you have any pets?"

"No," Violet sighed.

"Sounds like you want one," Margaret chuckled deep in her chest.

"Mom won't get us one. She says she already has three children and she's not taking on another responsibility. She'll let me babysit, but she won't let me take care of a pet. It makes no sense. "

"What would you get, if you could have a pet?"

"Something cuddly. A dog or a cat, or even a bunny would be nice. I like both big dogs and little dogs."

"Maybe you could start with a fish?"

"Maybe. I've never seen one like that Goby."

"They're really easy to get, and pretty hardy," Margaret leaned back in her chair. "So…"

Violet braced herself.

"Tell me your favorite thing about your super power."

"My super power?"

"Yes," Margaret beamed at Violet. Her teeth were tiny and far apart. The space between her nose and lip was large. It seemed like she knew Violet expected a different question.

"Well…"Violet sauntered around the room, gazing at the spines of books—she saw a lurid red one that read _Vampires, Werewolves, and Demons: Twentieth Century Reports in the Psychiatric Literature—_ and little wooden figurines of horses and fairies on the cherry wood bookshelves, "It's very useful to sneak up on people…and because of my force field, I can float, and then I'm bullet proof, and so is everyone with me. One time, Dash was in the bubble with me, and he was running, so I was flying. All these bullets were coming at us, but they just bounced off us as we flew."

"Sounds like you're not only safe, but you're having fun."

"Yeah, I never thought of it that way, but I guess it was fun."

"Was, or is?"

Violet was puzzled. She hadn't thought about her choice of words. She also realized that her word choice was accurate. Her powers used to be fun—when she used them against Dash; on Nomanisan when she and Dash teamed up; back in the city when her adrenals were popping off and her short -term memory was suppressed.

"Is it still fun?"

"Well, sure! Of course it is."

"What's your least favorite part of your powers?"

That was a strange question. Could there be a least favorite part? "You mean, a part that's less awesome?"

"If that's what it means to you."

Violet thought.

"I can't really think of anything that's not good about my powers….except, they're both defensive."

"Defensive?"

"Yes. I can't really attack anybody with them. Not that I would want to, but they really are best for defending myself, helping me hide, shielding me…"

"Is protection inferior to attacking?"

Margaret obviously didn't have an opinion one way or the other, but she expected Violet to answer her. It was an interesting philosophical super-hero question.

"No. You need both. But that's just it! Dash can defend himself with his speed by running away, and use super fast kicks and punches to attack. Mom and Dad, same thing—their powers can be used for both things. Mine is just defense."

"What about when you sneak up on people? Can't you attack then?"

"Yes, but, thinking about it now—it's kind of cowardly. They can't see me coming."

"Don't you think, though, that a true coward wouldn't bother to help anyone at all? That they would just fade away whenever they saw trouble, and run?"

"It takes more bravery to be someone like my Dad."

"I think it might take more bravery for a small young woman to take on opponents much bigger than she is, with weapons. Plus, I think it would take ingenuity. Sneaking up on someone takes strategy, maybe even figuring out how to use the environment to her advantage." Margaret smiled at Violet, dark eyes shiny. Violet sighed.

"You've been talking to Rick and my parents, haven't you?"

"Just took a peek at your super hero file, and you're actually pretty well known around here."

"I am?"

"Yes. Apparently, you're very impressive." She flicked on a hot-water heater. "I almost forgot about the tea. I have peach green tea, pomegranate raspberry, mint, and chai. I also have some chocolate syrup and some milk in my little fridge, if you would like the chai chocolaty."

"That sounds pretty good, actually. I've never had chocolate chai."

Margaret opened the little red fridge and pulled out a container of chocolate syrup and a carton of milk. She filled a pink mug with fuchsia roses on it with water from a bottle and popped it in the red box of a microwave behind her desk.

"Are you a super, Margaret? Can you read minds or something like that?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, what can you do?"

"If someone chooses, they can open themselves to me. I can feel what they feel, and get an overall idea about what's bothering them. I can also lift some of what they feel, and help them get some relief."

"That must be terrible for you. How long do you have to feel the pain?"

"Not long at all. You see, after lifting the pain, Kuan Yin takes it for me." She indicated the porcelain statue of the lady on the dragon. "I just lay my hands on her, and let it flow out of me and into her."

"Whose Kuan Yin, and what happens to it after that?"

"Kuan Yin is the Buddhist goddess of compassion. She's worshipped throughout East Asia. I must admit; I don't know what happens to the pain. Sometimes I feel it flows into the center of the earth, and sometimes I think it just becomes harmless, and a part of the statue." The microwave dinged and Margaret poured and stirred the chocolate chai. She handed the mug to Violet, but the mug was too hot, forcing her to sit in a chair and place it on an end table.

"How did you handle it before you got the statue? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

"It was very tough for me." Margaret settled back in her chair. Violet found she liked listening to her speak, although it was still difficult to make eye contact. "It was very painful. It took me a long time to figure out what was wrong. Whenever I talked to someone who was angry, or sad, or scared, they would tell me that they felt so free after being with me. They felt so much lighter, they said, like they could feel hope and joy again. I loved helping people, but every time I did it, I would feel very sad or angry, and I understood those weren't even my own emotions. Sometimes, it would make me physically sick. I would get terrible headaches, or sick to my stomach. Then, after talking to a friend who had been going through a very bad breakup, I found myself stumbling home. I leaned up against a tree to rest, and my body just pushed my friend's pain into the tree."

"Did the tree get sick?"

"No, actually. It was like the pain oozed into the tree's bark, and then it just vanished. I think the tree may have turned it into something healthy and good, like compost, or it just sent it into the earth. I'm not really sure which."

Violet stared into the creamy whorl of foam at the center of her mug. "It must be so easy for you."

"Why do you think that?"

Violet moved her mug so that the chocolate brew swirled slightly. "Isn't it obvious? You don't have to feel any pain. And the people you love don't have to either. You must have a perfect life."

"That's not so," Margaret said, softly. "I can ease the pain, for a little while. I can't take away the problem. And I can send out my own pain so I can sleep for a while, or work without distraction, but it always comes back. There are some pains that can't be ignored. They won't be ignored." She blew on her cup of tea. "So, all powers can have limits."

"I guess so. I don't see the downside to Dad's power, though. I mean, I know he gets scared, but…his power itself has no downside." She focused on the biggest bubble on the foam of her drink. "And you know what, with your power, a little bit of time off from pain would be better than suffering all the time, I think."

"The way to make pain go away for good, Violet, is to face it. I could misuse my power to never let people face their pain, to never even let myself face my own pain. It would be like taking heroin. When the heroin's in your system, there's no pain, but it always wears off."

Violet's hung her head over her mug. Margaret didn't understand. Violet knew she wouldn't.

"Violet?"

"You would be right if the problem was fixable, but some people have problems that just aren't fixable, and they're too big."

"What do you mean by fixable?"

"You know, something that you can actually do something about."

"Well, there's always something that can be done…"

"No. Not always. Nothing can be done about the Inquisition, or the Salem witch hunts."

"They can be learned from."

Violet winced. That sounded so simplistic, so easy to believe if you haven't actually been through anything. Margaret, of all people, should know better. "How does that do any good for the people who suffered?"

"It probably doesn't, but it could save the lives of many people who would suffer the same fate."

"But the rage won't go away. Those people still suffered and died. And we should still feel angry, and sad."

"Of course! It's that anger that brings about change."

"Nothing will change."

"Why do you feel that way? That nothing will change?"

Violet's grip on her mug was so tight her knuckles ached.

"Violet? Do you know you're invisible right now?"

Violet hadn't noticed.

"Violet, I want you to feel safe here. We don't need to talk about this anymore."

"Really?" Violet could barely speak above a murmur. This was a new thing—an adult who didn't pump and jerk for more information, even when she clearly didn't want to talk about something. She could hardly believe it. Was it a trap?

"Yes. It's very important to me that you feel safe, that everyone who comes in this room feels safe."

"Is it okay if I stay invisible for a while then?" She didn't expect a "yes." Nobody wanted her invisible except when it was useful for them. Otherwise, they wanted to be able to stare at her.

_His huge pink finger hovers over the buttons on his wristband. Without his gloves, his wide, freckled hands with their thick digits look naked, obscene. "No going invisible now, Sweetheart… " _

"Of course." Margaret sipped her tea. "What kind of books do you like to read, Violet?'

That was it. No buts, no oh honeys, just acceptance and a change of subject.

"I really liked Jane Eyre…."

Violet spent the rest of the session talking about how _Jane Eyre_ was the greatest book she ever read, and why the title character was more of a heroine than many supers she knew. By the time she and Margaret rolled the conversation to how Jane Austen was one of the smartest, funniest people ever (Violet agreed with Margaret that the word "witty" was indeed the best adjective to describe her), Violet was visible again, and smiling.

Her parents noticed the smile.

"Sweetie, would you like to come back?" Helen asked her as they drove home.

"Well…okay….I guess," Violet muttered. Her eyes were closed. In her mind, she was held the sweet face of the Kuan Yin statue, and inhaled the cinnamon-chocolate aroma of sweet foam in a rosey mug.


	8. The Beast

I do not own _The Incredibles. _I do, however, take responsibility for not updating for a while. I am a hard-core procrastinator. I also have had a few changes going on, personally.

This story is dark and upsetting. Please read with that in mind, and do what you can to keep yourself safe.

The Beast

Violet sat in her room and wrote down everything about her visit to Margaret. She committed to paper everything Margaret told her about anger, about defense and attack, and about bravery. She wrote about Margaret's power, about her Kwan Yin, and even drew a picture of the goddess on a page in the purple journal.

_ It's easy to believe what Margaret says when she's talking to me, _she wrote. _ But now that I'm alone, I want to believe her, but she's wrong. I am not brave. It's nice to think about her, though. Even if she's wrong. _

_ It would really upset her to know the truth about me. _

Violet sighed. She had one more person to hide from.

She drew the sand goby to cheer herself up. She added a little top hat.

The next time she saw Margaret, they talked about Tony and Kari, and the teachers at school.

"You know how Lucius is with Honey?' Violet asked, watching the sand goby ooze in and out of the crevasses of the rocks in its tank. She thought of his top hat and smiled in spite of herself. "Do you think that's really rare? Like, impossibly?"

"Well, it's obviously not impossible, if Lucius and Honey exist."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine, but they're really _rare." _

"Do you know every single superhero in the world? And their spouses?"

"No…"

"So, is there a possibility that at least a few of those unknown Supers are married to a person who doesn't have powers? In fact, isn't it more likely, given the statistics, that a superhero would marry a person who wasn't?"

Violet had never thought of that.

"That's a lot of secret keeping," she said. "Or really messy breakups once the truth is found out."

"Not necessarily. Let's say Tony was a Super, and you were not. Really imagine that."

Violet closed her eyes. What power would Tony have? Not strength, or speed. Something subtler. Telekinesis? Yes! That would be perfect. That way, he wouldn't have to wear a tight supersuit. Instead, he could wear the black jeans and turtlenecks that suited his copper hair so well. He would be one of those Supers who blended in.

"You got it?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to give Tony the right superpower."

Margaret chuckled sweetly. "That's very important. Makes it more real. Okay, now, you're on a date with Tony. It's getting serious. You really like him, and you know he really likes you. He says he has to tell you something. He holds your hand, looks into your eyes, and says that he has something to tell you."

Violet put Tony and herself on a bench in an empty park. "Okay."

"Listen to what he says to you. Look into his eyes. "

Violet saw Tony, his brown eyes gazing earnestly at her. "I have something to tell you, Vi," he said. Behind her closed eyes she saw him glance away toward his car in the parking lot. She followed his gaze, and she saw the car being lifted off the ground—one feet, two feet, five feet—before being gently lowered back down to the asphalt.

In her imagination, she turned back towards Tony.

"Are you angry with him?" Margaret quietly asked.

"No," Violet's voice was soft as she continued to gaze at Superhero Tony.

"Would he be angry with you, if he found out about Invisigirl?

"I don't know…maybe…probably not."

"Don't you think most secrets are like that? We're so afraid that people close to us will be very upset, or frightened, or angry if they know who we are, but is that true?"

A surge of nausea jolted up Violet's esophagus. "Yes," she whispered. "It's true. There are terrible secrets like that."

"Violet, would you like some mint tea?"

Violet nodded. Margaret stood and prepared the tea.

Violet's hands disappeared from the ends of her long sleeves.

_All your little friends are going to be SO jealous of you. I'm about to be the most powerful man in the world. How many little girls can say that about their boyfriends? _

Violet felt the contents of her stomach rise and fall.

_Wait until your Daddy finds out about us, Baby Doll. I bet he'll want to KILL you, when he finds out what we're doing. _

She doubled over, clenching every muscle in her body.

_Rather poetic, eh? And inevitable. I was supposed to be your father's ward. You were supposed to fall in love with me—_

Violet leapt out of her armchair and fell to her knees in front of Margaret's trashcan. Everything in her stomach came up in one retch as she gasped and trembled.

Margaret went on her knees next to Violet. Her hands searched for Violet's hair and gently pulled it back from her face. As she did, Violet felt everything soften. The tidal motion of nausea ebbed farther and flowed weaker.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Violet gasped and sobbed.

"It's okay," Margaret whispered. Her hand went up and down on Violet's back. "Do you feel better?"

Violet's head buzzed and her body gave way, rolling into Margaret's arms. Her stomach dully ached with emptiness, but as she lay across Margaret's lap that went away.

"My stomach does," she finally said. Her tongue and cheeks chafed against her teeth when she spoke.

Margaret lifted her arm from where it lay on top of Violet's body. She reached to fetch a pillow, and then gently lowered Violet to the floor. Violet let her head sink into the pillow. She heard the trashcan being removed. She would have cried, but she was too dry to make tears.

She heard Margaret sigh heavily. When she opened her eyes she saw that Margaret was standing next to Kwan Yin. Violet could see the wide, knobby hand clearly. It gently rested on Kwan Yin's head. Kwan Yin kept smiling.

She closed her eyes again.

She welcomed the sound of running water.

Margaret helped her up onto the couch and handed her a cup of water. Violet drank slowly, each sip a little bigger than the next, until she felt it would stay down.

"Violet," Margaret finally said.

"I can understand if you don't want to see me anymore," Violet kept her voice calm. It was easy to do. She could barely speak above a whisper.

"No. I want you to keep coming, Violet, more than ever."

Violet looked at her glass of water, seemingly floating in midair. She was still invisible.

"How do you feel right now, Violet? "

"A little better."

"_What _do you feel right now?"

"Emotionally," it wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Empty." It was the truth. "All cleaned out. And tired."

"What did you feel right before you threw up?"

"Nauseated."

"What did you _feel_?"

Her voice was gentle, but it made Violet slump down further into the couch. She was too exhausted to put on her happy Violet face. She stared at Kwan Yin.

"Don't you know?" Violet asked.

"While you were sick, I felt like your body was trying to get something out of you, something you were rejecting. And it wasn't physical."

Violet felt cornered, but not by Margaret. She saw her feelings in those moments as a giant mass of strings. She saw the strings of her emotions as damp and moldy. She felt overwhelmed, thinking about all those feelings.

"I felt…a lot of things."

Margaret waited.

"I felt…disgusting. And scared."

"What were you afraid of?"

Numb, Violet heard the words slip out of her mouth. "That Dad will hate me."

Margaret sat by her quietly. She knew there was more.

"That everybody will hate me."

"That's a very large, terrible fear."

Violet nodded. Her lower eyelids felt swollen. The rest of her face felt numb.

"I can't imagine that you did anything bad enough to make everyone hate you."

Violet snorted. "I knew you would say that."

"Perhaps because the thought has occurred to you, yourself?"

Violet closed her eyes. _I helped save the world, and he is dead. I helped save the world, and he is dead. I helped save the world_

"Would you like a pen and paper?"

Violet startled at the sound of Margaret's voice. "What?'

"Would you like a pen and paper, instead of your fingers and your lap?"

Violet thought of the pen in her hand, the sound as the ink nib kissed the paper and then the flow of the invisible thought into the visible word.

The elation turned to gnawing anxiety as a thought occurred to her. "Do I have to read it out loud?" Right as she whispered it, she regretted it. Now the idea was in Margaret's head, if it wasn't before.

"Not at all. Unless you want to." Margaret placed a hardback book on Violet's lap for use as a table. Violet noticed it was _Vampires, Werewolves, and Demons_. On the book she placed three snow- white sheets, lined with horizontal veins of blue, and an elegant emerald green pen that looked like it had been carved from swirly marble.

Violet spent the rest of the session writing her incantation. A mug of mint tea magically appeared next to her, and after each line, she would sip from it. She was a highly efficient machine—write a line, sip, write a line, sip. She liked being this machine. Her circuits were running smoothly. She was no longer organic, human, dysfunctional.

Eventually, Margaret cleared her throat, startling Violet.

"Violet, your parents will be here soon."

Violet hugged the papers and the red book of vampire psychiatry to herself. "You're going to tell them I had a breakdown and threw up."

Margaret sat next to her again. "Violet, do you think maybe it would be a good thing for your parents to know?" Violet must have looked horrified, for she continued. "How would it be bad for them to know, and how would it be good?"

Violet thought. "They already suspect things are bad. This is just another reason for them to freak out. They'll want to know why I'm feeling this way."

"You're not ready to say why."

Violet shook her head.

"Okay. You didn't hurt yourself or anyone else. So, I don't have to give them any gory details."

"Thank you." Violet folded up the papers with the incantation and put them in her pockets. She studied the lurid red of _Vampires, Werewolves, and Demons_, with its medieval drawing of a nude figure in stark white being beleaguered by a tiny demon , and found herself chuckling. She opened the book to a random spot and started reading about the "possession epidemic" caused by _The Exorcist. _Hundreds of people(not exactly an epidemic, in Violet's estimation) were showing up in emergency rooms and churches everywhere, claiming they or their babies were possessed by a demon, after watching the film.

"Would you like to borrow that?"

"Yeah, actually. I'll bring it right back."

"Take your time. You'll find it most interesting."

Violet did find it most interesting. She learned that people who thought they were werewolves (or werebears, werebirds, and even werebees)were officially diagnosed with clinical lycanthropy. Those that felt compelled to drink blood had another condition, called Renfield's. There was another word in the name of the diagnosis, but Violet refused to read it.

Most of the people with clinical lycanthropy and Renfield's felt compelled to do the things they did, and were usually quite frightened. They _had_ to eat rabbits whole and munch on bugs and spiders. Reading about them made Violet think about something her mother said—"There's always someone worse off." Violet supposed there was.

Her parents both looked at the book askance. "Isn't that a little morbid, honey?" Her father asked.

"I think so," her mother said.

"I know you do, dear," Bob said. "Violet, shouldn't you read something nice? How about 'The Little Mermaid'?"

Violet raised an eyebrow. "Dad, the Little Mermaid bled wherever she walked, and at the end she died and turned into foam."

Dash dropped his fork with a clatter. "No she didn't! Tell her to stop making stuff up, Mom!"

Three days after her appointment with Margaret, Violet had read the entire book. She put it in the entryway to remind her to take it back, and then, not an hour later, found it missing.

_Really, Mom and Dad? Which one of you took it? _

That night the police radio in the living room popped and crackled.

"Man was attacked on the corner of 15th and Red Oak Street. Suspect has fled south on Red Oak, on foot. Victim is bleeding heavily."

Within ten minutes the Parr family was heading south on Red Oak. Their bright headlights, and their spinning flood light, lit the alleyways on white fires promptly snuffed out by shadow.

"Kids, I don't want you to be disappointed if we don't find the perpetrator," Helen said. "He had quite a head start, and it's dark."

"I would prefer not waiting until he has another victim," Bob growled, slowing the car down even more and hunching his shoulders, "before we catch this guy."

Five minutes passed as the Parrs' eyes followed the sweep of the lights over every nook and cranny of the alleyways and doorways of Red Oak. They were getting to the point where Red Oak turned into Highway 114. Highway 114 ran north and south and crossed Highway 72, which ran East and West. 114 arched into a cement bridge that carried traffic over a sheer-sided ravine.

"There he is!" Dash called out. The van rolled slowly to a stop, shuddering a little. Violet shuddered, too.

A dark tombstone shape stiffened in the lights of the Parrs' van.

Jack-Jack fussed softly in his car seat.

Helen placed a black -gloved hand on Bob's shoulder. "I'll be right along," she whispered. "You go."

Violet and Dash followed their father out of the van. Helen would come soon, with Jack-Jack, after she tended him.

The three Parrs instinctively moved into a crescent moon shape that stopped twenty feet from the figure by the concrete wall that prevented cars from careening into the ravine. Mr. Incredible was in the middle; his children flanked him.

The tombstone shape had wrinkles and folds. The wrinkles and folds were a cape and hood. It was made of a dirty, coarse looking material. Whatever was wrapped in it was shaking, the shoulders giving spasmodic little jerks.

Violet thought of the Grim Reaper.

"It's Dracula," Dash whispered. "No, it's a zombie."

It slowly twisted to face the Parrs.

The man's face was smeared in blood. The stuff was clotting in the sparse, coarse beginnings of a beard. Dried drops of it hung in suspended animation on his neck. His eyes were wide and bright, the pupils tiny. The irises were the color of soft, pale moss. The bright lights, his sheen of his sweat, and the dark blood turned his taut skin into a shocking, shining white.

His lips parted. They were maroon.

"Okay kids," Violet heard her mother whisper as she moved toward them. "I think your father and I can handle this. We want you to get back in the van. Take Jack-Jack and go."

Through all the blood, Violet saw a singular gleam at the corner of the man's eye. It broke free from the man's eyelids, and ran down the carnage on his cheek.

She stepped toward the man.

"Violet, no!" Her father cried.

The man winced and whimpered.

Violet stopped and looked into the man's eyes. The soft hazel of the eyes belied the gore on his face and the bone white of the skin.

She heard the sirens of the police cars coming down the street, getting steadily louder.

"Did you really want to do that?" She asked him.

The man sobbed and shook his head violently. Violet saw the arcs of tears fly from his face.

The lights of police cars washed the man's face red and blue. The addition of more headlights intensified the glare, and the moon recoiled. Violet stepped closer.

"Why did you do it, then? Why did you attack that man?"

"Violet, stop!" Her parents were frantic now. She didn't have much time. She heard car doors opening and the click of gun safety locks turning off.

"Mr. and Mrs. Incredible," a man's voice rumbled, low and confident. There were three crunching steps on the concrete as a police officer joined her parents, and then a mix of murmurs, both soothing and frightened.

"Don't come any closer!" The man gripped the low cement wall that bordered the ravine. "If you do, it'll come out of me!"

"What'll come out of you, sir?"

"The Beast!" The man's voice cracked and he crumpled into a trembling pile on the ground, still gripping the wall. He sobbed in hitching yelps.

Violet moved closer. "Oh, sir," Violet said. "I am so, so sorry."

The man looked up at her. He really wasn't that old—ten years older than she was, tops. The look on his face told that he didn't expect to hear anything like that. A wave of fresh tears broke on the man's eyelids and ran down his cheeks. His lower lip shook, and he didn't look scary at all. He looked like a messy, frightened child.

The cop car lights blinked and twirled.

The man hiccupped and slumped back onto the wall.

"I tried," he sobbed. "I tried for so long. My bones just won't listen. They reshape themselves, and my teeth, and the claws..." He held up a shaking hand. Besides the blood, it looked normal.

"It's okay," Violet said. "I can tell you tried."

The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. When he pulled his hand away, it took a string of snot, which looked to be the length of a shoelace, along with it.

"I was so, so hungry, and he wouldn't let me eat. I was so angry. I could hear the blood rushing through him; I could feel my teeth sinking into his skin." He curled up into himself and looked away with a sob. "I can hear your heartbeat," he moaned. "Your little heart, skipping, skipping, skipping."

His voice had been soft, but Violet still hoped nobody else heard that. Her heart wasn't skipping, but galloping. "Take a deep breath," Violet said, keeping her voice calm. "I don't think that's mine. I think you're scared, and so you think you hear it."

"They're going to shoot me," the man whispered, just loud enough for Violet to hear.

"No, they're going to help you," Violet took a couple steps closer.

"Stop!" the men yelled and Violet's mother suppressed a gasp. Her father made a noise like a bark. Violet froze.

The man's upper lip curled. The blood on his teeth formed striated patterns. "You're so small, and young. I could tear you in two." He sounded as if the idea caused him physical pain. His voice cracked and he rocked back and forth.

_You're so small, I could tear you in two, and you'll beg me to never stop-_

_Stop. _

_I don't have time right now. _

"Don't worry about me," Violet said. "I'll be okay. I don't think you want to hurt anybody." She paused. Maybe this guy was a liar, a cannibal liar. "You don't, do you?"

"No." The small word turned into a groan. "But I can't stop it! I can't stop! I can't stop!" The man wailed and slumped against the wall.

Something in Violet told her that this man wasn't faking his anguish. His sobs sounded painful, and his eyes had been terrified.

"Mister, there's a name for what you've got. It's clinical lycanthropy."

The man raised his head and coughed. "Clinical?" His tiny pupils sharpened under his narrowing eyelids. He scrutinized her. "You mean, it's a doctor thing?"

"Well, yes. Doctors can help you with it. It's usually caused by other things. A doctor can figure it out."

"Other things?" The man puzzled over this. "You said lycanthropy, right? No, doctors can't help me. Didn't you see I'm a bear?"

Violet's mind flashed the unwanted picture of a rampaging Winnie the Pooh. She almost laughed, and bit the sides of her tongue so hard she tasted blood. "They just call it that to keep it simple. But, they can help you. They've helped other people, people who turn into birds, cats, lions…"

"Other people? You mean, other people have been cured?"

Violet thought on the causes of clinical lycanthropy—depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder—all nebulous, tricky things. "They can stop you from turning into a bear. Why did you bite that man?"

"I was hungry. I smelled something in the garbage…something sweet and salt. I was tasting it when that man kicked me." He lowered his shroud. He was shirtless underneath. There was a black and blue oval forming on his ribs. The bruise was checked with angry reds and purples, and it bulged from the skin, a pocket of blood. The rest of his complexion was yellowish-white and greasy looking.

"What's your name?" Violet asked.

"My name? Uh, Landon. Landon Press."

"Landon, you see this officer here? He's going to take you to the doctors so they can help you, okay?" Violet stepped back and the officer stepped forward, a synchronized dance. "And you feel better soon."

Violet had just reached her parents when she heard the cuffs click into place.

"Hey, um, Miss?"

She turned to face Landon. "Yes?"

"I didn't kill that man, did I? I didn't mean to…I was just so angry."

"He'll be fine." Violet realized she had absolutely no idea if the other guy was okay, and was slightly shocked with herself at how little she cared. If the other man recovered, maybe he would learn not to kick random people, and instead call the police so they could get the help they needed.

She walked back to the car with her parents. Once they were pulled away and safely away from the scene, Bob stopped the van.

"Oh, honey," Helen cooed, climbing out of her place in the front and going to the backseat to squeeze Violet. "You were wonderful."

"She didn't even do anything to him," Dash said, managing to sound both awe-struck and disappointed.

"Compassion is as important as strength, if not more so," Helen said.

Bob reached back to squeeze Violet's knee. "Violet," he said, "you got that from that book, didn't you?"

Violet nodded.

"From now on, you can read whatever you want. I won't say a word."

Dash and Helen spoke at once.

"Me too! I get to read whatever I want, too! It's educational!"

"Now Bob, not _whatever _she wants, just within reason."

Violet felt a strange floating feeling. She had never taken charge with a villain before like that. She'd never had anyone look at her like she had the answers. She was happy that she could help the man.

She'd never had anyone looking _up_ at her. She had always been the small one, the one looked down on, the one _underneath. _

The floating feeling crumbled when she realized why she was able to help the man.

She could help him because she knew what he was going through.

She'd had a beast inside her, too.

He was still there.


End file.
